Drifting
by Vinividivinci
Summary: He felt her hand gently skim over his hair and sighed, wondering if she would hold his hand if he asked. He tended to avoid touching people because it brought back to him how much he missed human connection – but in Teresa's case he would make an exception. Jane whump
1. Chapter 1

He wasn't used to thinking about how his actions might affect others. His father had drilled into him, at a very early age, that one should never question oneself or worry about anyone else. Just go for what you wanted and damn the consequences, had been Alex' motto in life.

This approach to life had brought Jane success – initially, but it had also gotten him into more trouble than he could remember. Fortunately, most of the time he'd been able to wiggle _out_ of that trouble relatively painlessly. That was another thing his father had taught him.

Unfortunately, others weren't always that lucky. And that was no truer than in the case of his wife and daughter. Those two innocents had died because of his arrogance and desire for fame. They had been brutally murdered because he had thought he could use his skills to taunt a serial killer and hadn't bothered to consider the possible ramifications.

He lived with what he had done every day, every second of every day. He was filled with guilt and horror at the consequences of his carelessness.

He snorted softly. But even his guilt hadn't changed him, hadn't taught him anything. No, just like before – his life was now divided into "before" and "after" – just like before, he didn't think, he didn't consider. But now what he wanted wasn't fame or money, but revenge. He wanted to find and kill the man who had destroyed his family. And again, just like Alex had taught him, he went for what he wanted and to hell with anything else.

Well, this time it appeared as if the consequences had taken him straight _to_ hell. But the horrible thing was – the thing which filled him with even more guilt than he already carried, was that they hadn't just taken him, but Lisbon too.

He looked over at the unconscious woman beside him and prayed, not to a God he no longer believed in, but to the universe, to anything good that was left in it, that she was okay.

He couldn't do anything to help her, which was killing him. He had no idea how long they'd been here, although from the faint light coming in through the crack in the walls he figured it must be early morning. It had probably been four or five hours since the most stupid criminals it had ever been his misfortune to meet had dumped him here. They had brought an unconscious Lisbon in a couple of hours later. She had obviously tried to find him and been caught unawares, just like him.

He heard what sounded like a groan and glanced sharply, or at least _tried_ to glance sharply at Teresa. It was only as things swam before his eyes, and he heard another groan, that he realized he might be the one making the sound.

"You're losing it Patrick," he muttered. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, suddenly wanting to tune everything out. The guilt over what he'd done to Teresa was almost more than he could bear.

A few moments later, at least he thought it was since his sense of time was pretty messed up, he heard another sound. It was different than the previous groan and caused him to open his eyes.

He glanced around the small, rustic shack until his eyes focused on the woman sharing his predicament. "Lisbon?" he croaked. No sound actually left his lips so he cleared his throat and tried again.

"Lisbon?"

Another noise and this time a stirring of her body.

" _Lisbon_?" he practically shouted – although the sound that left his lips more closely resembled a hiss. "Wake up."

Another groan, a turning of her head, a clenching of her hand and then … nothing.

" _Teresa_!" he said almost frantically. "Wake up – please?"

Another movement and the next thing he knew he was looking into brilliant green, albeit unfocused, eyes. She stared at him for a few seconds as if trying to place who he was. He worried, for a brief moment, that she'd suffered a brain injury due to the conk on the head she'd received, and now didn't know him.

That was until he saw recognition and then awareness – followed by irritation and then downright anger enter her eyes. Yup, Lisbon was back.

"Jane?" she snapped, although the effect was somewhat ruined by the croak that came out rather than the forceful exclamation she'd probably been intending. She slowly pushed herself up. "What the hell happened?" she continued as she tried to move to a more dignified position.

"Uh -" He was so happy to see her conscious, hell, to see her _alive_ that he couldn't speak.

"I _told_ you not to go looking for Ziegler on your own. I _told_ you to let me know before you did anything stupid. When will you ever _learn_?" She sighed and patted herself down, clearly looking for her weapon and her phone, in that order. When she found neither she looked up at him again. "So, why aren't you saying anything? No arrogant justification for your actions? No pointing out that you were right about the killer all along? What Jane?" She continued to glare at him in the muted shadows of the shack.

"No," he sighed, letting his head fall back against the wall. "I'm sorry," he said softly, his eyes closing.

Lisbon looked at him sharply. This wasn't like him. "Jane?" she asked, this time more softly. "What happened?"

"Uh – I just wanted to see where he was going," he told her softly. "I was following – at a safe distance I might add. I started to call you - really," he defended himself at her disbelieving snort. "But the next thing I knew I heard a sound -"

"A sound? What kind of a sound?"

He sighed, suddenly feeling so tired. He just wanted to sleep. "A kind of – popping sound."

"What was it?" she frowned, staring at him intently.

"A gunshot," he murmured, his voice getting quieter. "Silencer."

"A _gunshot_?" she said incredulously. "Was someone shot?"

"Mmm," he nodded, beginning to feel as if he was floating. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind he knew that was a bad thing, even though he really couldn't get up the energy to worry about it.

"Jane?" her voice suddenly sounded scared and he could hear her as she scuttled over to him. "Oh my _God_!" Her exclamation was followed by frantic hands, touching him, pulling back his jacket. "Jane, why didn't you tell me? Oh God, you've been shot!"

"Mmm hmm," he agreed, his body starting to list to the side. "Sorry," he muttered.

"What are you apologizing for?" she asked, although she was pulling up his shirt as she spoke. "You're bleeding!"

He cracked open his eyes at that, a small frown on his face. Wasn't he _supposed_ to be bleeding? He rather thought that's what happened when you got shot.

"I'm going to help you lie down and then I'm going to try and bandage this up. We have to stop the bleeding."

"Kay," he muttered, although he didn't move, couldn't move.

"Come on Jane," her voice told him. She sounded so loving, so gentle. It had been a long time since someone had spoken to him in that tone of voice. He sighed softly. It was almost worth getting shot.

The next thing he knew a sharp pain stabbed through him – turning his world into a miasma of pain and heat. He groaned – it was probably more of a whimper but he refused to acknowledge that. A man had to have _some_ semblance of pride after all.

"I'm sorry!" she exclaimed as she lowered him to the ground. "I know it hurts but I have to bandage this wound. God, how did this happen?"

"Man – shot me," he muttered. Hadn't he already told her that?

She snorted and he admitted to himself that he loved when she did that. It was so _Lisbon_.

He heard the sound of ripping – he really hoped it wasn't his jacket – and the next thing he knew there was more pain. The good news was that it lasted only a brief few seconds before he faded out.

By the time he woke up Teresa had finished bandaging his wound and he wondered briefly whose clothes had been sacrificed, finally deciding it didn't really matter. His stomach and side were throbbing and hot, but at least it felt like the bleeding may have stopped. He wondered idly if she had stopped it in time or if he'd lost too much blood. For some reason he didn't seem to care.

"Jane? How are you feeling?"

He lifted his eyelids and tried to peer up at her. How had his head ended up in her lap? Before he had a chance to figure that out, everything came into focus and he found himself looking into a pair of worried green eyes. He swallowed. He didn't think he'd ever told her how much her eyes meant to him. It was a cliché to say they were the windows to the soul, but in Teresa's case it was true.

He could always tell how she really felt just by looking into those eyes. He knew when she was angry at him, or when she pretended to be angry because she thought that was what he needed.

He could also tell when she felt sympathy for him – when her heart ached for him. But she rarely said anything, for which he was grateful. He didn't _do_ sympathy, or gratitude or any of those things. He didn't deserve them No – he deserved anger and derision and disgust.

But if he was honest with himself – which now days he tried to be – sympathy and gratitude and _caring_ from Lisbon made his life a little more bearable. He didn't know when living purely for revenge had turned to living for revenge _and_ to stay close to Teresa, to bask in the warmth of her light.

He would regret dying without having caught Red John, but at least he was dying in her presence, in that light. There were worse ways to go.

"Patrick Jane!" she said sharply, loudly. "Don't you _dare_ die on me," she told him. It seemed as if _she_ was a mind reader now. "You will _not_ do this, do you hear? So open your eyes and pull yourself together and help me get out of here."

He continued to drift, listening to her voice but not paying any attention to her words. He felt her hand gently skim over his hair and sighed, wondering if she would hold his hand if he asked. He tended to avoid touching people because it brought back home how much he missed human connection – but in Teresa's case he would, and often did, make an exception.

He liked to touch her. In fact, if things had been different, he would have liked to touch her in a much different way. He would like to touch _all_ of her.

Oops – better get your mind off of that Patrick. Can't go there – ever. You don't deserve her and you can't betray Angela.

But Angela is gone, a small voice somewhere in his head said. You wouldn't be betraying her. She won't ever know.

Didn't matter, he told himself. When he married Angela – against the advice of _everyone_ – he had known it was forever. He was like that. Once he gave his heart he never took it back and he had given it all to the girl who had followed him around for so many years at the carnival. Their love had grown over time – and although they were young, both of them knew it was lasting.

But the truth was that Jane rarely allowed himself to love – his father had drilled into him that that way led to pain and was something to be avoided. But he had enough of his mother in him to know that his was a nature that _wanted_ to love and one that was utterly and completely faithful once it found it. He'd given his heart to Angela and it was hers for the rest of his life – wasn't it? A picture of Teresa popped into his mind.

But he instantly shied away from that and instead thought about his Mother. She had died when he was ten but he still remembered her. She had been the most important person in his life and he knew, if there was any goodness in him, it was because of her. Her only weakness, at least the only one he could see from his memories, was her unshakeable love for Alex Jane.

He had been nothing but a scoundrel who had seduced a young girl, married her and then dragged her around the country as he searched for his next big con.

Patrick had never been able to figure out what his mother saw in him. Oh, it was true Alex could be charming when he wanted to be, but a more selfish man it would be hard to find. He was pretty sure his mother's life must have been hard. But she had remained faithful and loving to the moment of her death.

Jane had no idea what had happened to his father. He'd left home at 18 and hadn't seen his father in years. He figured he must be dead – probably knifed to death in some back ally somewhere. If that were the case it was horribly ironic. Vowing from the time he was fifteen to _never_ do what his father did he was pretty sure he was going to die like him.

He thought again about Angela and it hit him – not for the first time – that he'd married a woman like his mother. Angela had been a good woman, a good person and yet she'd fallen in love with him – a scoundrel like his father.

No, that wasn't quite true. Although he was arrogant and a con man he _had_ loved her – with all his heart and soul. And Charlotte had been the joy of his life. Even though his actions had gotten them killed, he had loved them dearly and had told them that in every way he knew how.

It didn't appease his guilt one bit, but he could honestly say that his family had been happy. He remembered the times of laughter and joy that had existed before he had destroyed them.

And his mind shifted back to Teresa. She was a good woman too – and strangely reminded him even more of his mother.

"Jane?" A voice thankfully interrupted his wayward thoughts. "Jane – come on, wake up. You're going to be fine. Don't do this, okay?"

Teresa! He's almost forgotten she was here, with him. Why _was_ she here? And where was here? He opened his eyes, blinking at how bright it seemed.

"Patrick?" she said softly, leaning down. "Come on."

 _Patrick_? Her use of his first name warmed him to his toes, until he realized it probably meant he was doing really badly.

"You – only call me – Patrick cause I'm – dyin'," he told her softly.

He couldn't quite tell what the sound that she made meant, although when he was finally able to focus on her eyes he was pretty sure they were full of tears.

"No, I called you Patrick so you would listen to me," she told him fiercely. "You were ignoring me when I called you Jane."

"Oh." There was a long pause. "Like it – when you – call me – Patrick. No one – does, anymore."

This time he was positive he heard her make a noise that sounded distinctly like a sob. Not Teresa – no, she was too tough. He tried to see her again and was comforted by the angry look on her face. That was more like it.

"Sorry," he told her again. "You should – go."

"Are you kidding?" she said defiantly. "If I leave you here to just – die – think of all the paperwork. Nope, you got us into this mess and you're not going to get out of it so easily. Now come _on_. Move your butt and let's get out of here."

His eyebrows went up. Did she really think he was going to get up and just walk – hell, she _did_! "Teresa," he groaned. "It hurts."

"Of course it does." No sympathy there. "You were shot – due to your own reckless behavior. So come on, let's get out of here." She carefully moved out from underneath him – he suddenly missed her warmth and soft lap – and slowly stood.

He had to blink repeatedly to clear his eyes, but when they were at least somewhat able to discern what was around him he saw her standing with her hand held out to him.

"Come on," she took his hand, but then squatted down and put her arm under his shoulders. "It's going to hurt but your wound isn't bleeding and we've got to get out of here before someone comes back."

That was the one thing that got him to move. He didn't care for himself, pretty sure that he was already dead, but he wanted Teresa to get away.

"Go," he gasped as she tried to help him up.

"Don't be stupid," was all she answered. "Now come on Jane. Don't be a baby."

"A – _baby_?" he gasped. "I've been _shot_."

"We've already established that," she told him matter-of-factly. "Come on – let's get you up."

He groaned pitiably as he tried to stand. He could feel her flinch every time he made a sound, proving that she was not as unemotional as she tried to appear. In fact he knew she was both worried and upset but was trying to keep it together to get him – them – out of this. So naturally he milked it for all it was worth – allowing himself to groan and whimper up a storm. Not that _that_ was fake – but he could have controlled it if he'd really tried – he thought.

As she got him to his feet he was never more proud of her than he was at this moment. She was the strongest woman he'd ever known and yet had a core of compassion that ran deep. She also had the most beautiful green eyes he'd ever seen.

"Patrick – let's go."

"Go?" he asked stupidly. Wasn't standing enough?

"We're going to walk out of here and get help. You can do it. I'll hold onto you."

"Kay," he agreed, although he was so sleepy all he wanted to do was lie down. Maybe he'd take a nap with Charlotte. She liked it when he did that.

"Charlotte?" he mumbled.

"Oh God Jane," Teresa whispered, her voice breaking. "Come on, let's go."

"Kay," he agreed again. The sharp stab of pain startled him to awareness. His eyes opened and it took a few seconds but he soon recognized the little shack. "Still here?"

"Yes, we are, but we _won't_ be if you get your ass moving."

He sighed. She was _not_ going to let up. "Teresa – Lisbon, did anyone – ever – tell you, you're – very stubborn?"

"Yes," she grinned, moving forward with him tightly held at her side. "All the time. I'm Irish you know."

"Mmm – s'm I."

"Yes, and you're even more stubborn than me. Now move it Jane. At this rate we'll reach the door next month."

"Stubborn and impatient," he muttered, taking one step at a time. It hurt but that didn't seem to matter to Teresa. "Sadist," he murmured.

"What?" she asked, not really paying attention. She was trying to get them to the door and was doing it with guts, determination and a one-track mind.

"I said – you're a – sadist. Rigsby would be nicer."

"Mmm – if Rigsby was here he'd pick you up and _carry_ you."

"Cho?"

"Cho would kick your ass and then have Rigsby pick you up and carry you. Now get moving."

"Grace?"

She sighed but kept moving – knowing he was trying to distract himself from the pain. "Grace would say nice, encouraging things-"

"- and get Rigsby – to carry – me," Jane panted. "Nothing – personal, but I wish Rigsby – _were_ here."

"You're doing great Patrick – just a couple more steps and we're outside."

"And then?" he asked.

She shrugged, which had the effect of almost toppling him over. Damn but he was weak and shaky.

"And then we will see what we shall see."

"Isn't that – the other side – of the – mountain."

"Yes, well this feels like mountain climbing to me."

"Me too," he agreed breathlessly.

He heard her little snort of triumph when they reached the door. That sound was quickly followed by a huff of irritation – he needed to catalogue all the different Lisbon sounds – when the door was found to be locked.

"Let me," he murmured, although he continued to stand there and do nothing.

"Jane?"

"What? Oh, sorry. I need - something." He frowned. What did he need? Lisbon, he needed Lisbon. He moved his head so that he was looking at -"

"Here," she tried to hand him something.

He frowned again and his eyes tracked down until they focused on her lips. He'd already noted her gorgeous eyes, but he couldn't forget that amazing mouth either. She really did have the most kissable –

" _Jane_! Pay attention. Here, take this." She reached out and took his hand, holding it palm up, and then dropped something into it.

"What?" he squinted down.

"It's a paper clip. See if you can open the door."

"Paper clip? Why do – you have a -"

"It doesn't matter." She sighed. "Look, I was filling out some forms and the pages were clipped together. I must have put the clip in my pocket. Now can you _please_ try and pick the lock?"

He wanted to say something – something about Teresa always telling him _not_ to pick locks, that it was illegal – but he couldn't quite get the words out. Instead he dutifully moved his hand to the door – the hand with the bent paperclip, and tried to do what she asked.

It took longer than normal since his eyes really didn't seem to want to work, nor did his hand. But eventually he heard a click and before he'd even had a chance to draw back, Teresa had opened the door.

"Good – now let's go."

She drew him forward but this time he wasn't sure if he was going to make it. His knees had turned into something resembling jello and were sure to give out at any time. He wanted to slide to the ground and rest, hopefully with his head once more in Teresa's lap.

Except he knew she wouldn't let him. "Sadist," he again told her. She barely glanced at him, although he did see the two grooves between her eyes. She was frowning and he wondered what he'd done _this_ time.

"You – mad?" he breathed.

"What?" Her sudden stop almost catapulted him to the ground, only her arms flung around him saved him. "Mad? I'm not mad - I just want to get out of here and get you to a hospital."

"Meh – hate – hospitals."

"I know you do," she half-laughed, half sobbed. "But I'm afraid you need one now. You have a bullet in you."

"Really?" he looked at her in surprise although a moment later it came back to him. "Right – bullet. I _told_ you he was the killer."

"No you didn't," Teresa answered. "You just said he smelled funny. That does not make him a killer."

"Ye – sduz," he muttered as he stumbled. Again she kept him upright. "Pine tar."

" _Pine tar_? You mean the stuff they use in soap."

"Mmm hmm. Lisbon – stop, please," he panted. He was losing sight of why they were walking. All he knew was that he needed to sit down. He wanted to rest on his couch in the bullpen and sleep.

"No Jane – we have to keep going. Tell me about the pine tar."

"Pine – tar? What?"

"You said the Ziegler smelled of pine tar. Why did that give away that he was the murderer?"

"Horses," he said, his voice so low she barely heard him.

"Yes – we found the murder victim in the Rosemead stables – but there was no evidence that Ziegler had been there – _Jane!"_

He'd hit the end of his rope, he was done for, on his last leg, and any other expression he could think of – which right now was none. The pain was too much, he could not longer see anything but spots and he was _tired,_ so tired. "Sleep," he slurred as he rested on the cool grass. He thought he heard something, he knew he _felt_ something – warm hands trying to pull him up.

"An'jla?" he whispered.

"Patrick, come on," his wife whispered. "You have to get up. Please, for me."

"Tired m'dear," he said softly, feeling her caress his cheek. "Wanna – sleep."

"I know," she told him lovingly. "But you can't, not yet. You just have to walk a little bit farther and then you can rest."

"No – like't here," he told her. He felt warm and safe and _loved_ , something he'd missed for so long. "Don't go," he told her. "Stay."

"Oh Patrick," her voice broke. "Please wake up and come with me."

"With you?" He tried to open his eyes, tried to see her. It had been so very long but now – all he had to do was move and he could be with her again. He could be with Angela. "Charlotte?" he mumbled.

A sob sounded in his ear. Oh no – was something wrong with their little girl? He tried to open his eyes, tried to reach out to Angela. "Wha's wrong – Charlotte."

"Nothing," her voice soothed, although he could hear the sadness in it. "She's safe Patrick. She's happy. But you need to stand up – you need to go with Teresa."

He frowned. Teresa? Suddenly the picture he held in his mind of Angela began to morph into that of a dark haired, green-eyed woman. "Teresa?"

"Yes – that's right. Please Ja – Patrick, _please?"_

Angela wanted him to go with Teresa. The thought should have confused him, but right now all he wanted to do was make his wife happy. Maybe then she would forgive him.

For what? He didn't know, didn't _want_ to know so instead he opened his eyes.

"Jane." The word was said in relief and he stared at the face hovering above him. "Can you stand?"

"Angela?" he whispered. He tried to look around but was too weak. Instead he kept his eyes on – Teresa. He saw her eyes fill with tears and her hand impatiently wipe them away.

"She's safe with Charlotte– but she wants you to get up."

He nodded. Okay – if that's what she wanted… he tried to move but gave up when it became clear it was impossible. The next moment, however, he felt a small hand press into his back and then he was being helped to his feet.

"There you go," her voice said calmly. "Good job. Now let's go."

Again he began to walk forward, but this time he was unaware of anything expect the sound of her voice and the feel of her arm around him. He didn't know what she said, but he kept moving, knowing it would make her happy. He couldn't analyze who the "her" was. Angela and Teresa had become blurred in his mind.

"Oh thank God!" Lisbon's words finally cut through the heavy fog that seemed to envelope him and he wondered briefly why she sounded so relieved. A second later he heard noises and shouts coming from somewhere close. He also heard a tiny whimper from the woman holding on to him.

"Boss! You okay?" one of the voices called.

"Rigsby – I'm fine but Jane is hurt badly. We need an ambulance."

"There's one on the way – it should be here any minute. Here, let me help."

Jane felt himself being moved and the next thing he knew he was on the ground, something under his head. A moment later something else covered him.

"You're safe now Jane," her voice told him softly. "Just hang on and the ambulance will be here to take you to the hospital." A small, slightly roughened hand grasped his.

"Don't like -"

"- hospitals, I know," she laughed softly. "Just promise me you'll hang on!"

"Pine tar – used for horses – hooves."

"What is he saying?" Cho's voice broke through the sounds of the night.

"It's how he figured out that Ziegler was the killer," Teresa said quietly. "Put out an APB on him and his bodyguard."

"Will do Boss. Jane gonna be okay?"

"Gonna be – fine – Cho. An'jla's waitin." Of course he didn't see the sharp looks that passed between his friends but he did feel his hand being squeezed tightly. He tried to squeeze back but was just too exhausted.

"You take it easy Jane," Cho said softly, his hand gently patting his shoulder. "You're gonna be okay."

"God – what happened?" Rigsby asked quietly as Cho moved away. "He looks -"

"He's going to be _fine_ ," Lisbon said, almost angrily. "He just needs to rest up for a few days."

"All right – if you say so boss." Rigsby's voice sounded less than sure, but he knew when to push his superior and when to leave it alone. "I think I hear the ambulance. I'll go send them here."

"Thanks," Teresa murmured. There was a moment of silence and then Jane felt someone – no _her_ gently stroking his head. "Don't you _ever_ do something like this again Jane, you hear me? Next time tell me when you decide to go after a killer. At least that way I can protect you."

"Kay," he agreed. He didn't quite understand the laugh that met his words, and tried to open his eyes to see what was so funny.

"You're not going to keep that promise, are you?" she asked.

He would – at least he'd _try_. But sometimes he really didn't know the answer and didn't want to reveal anything until he was sure and that meant that he had to check things out – which sometimes got him into trouble. But for _her_ he'd really, really try.

Her hand pulled away and he suddenly felt bereft. He tried to find it again but before he had a chance hands – not her hands – were roaming all over him. The noise grew and there were shouts and hands pulling apart his clothes and sticking things into his arms and –

"Ow!" his eyes shot open and he glared at the man staring down at him. He tried to jerk his arm away but was stopped by the same man.

"Don't fight us Mr. Jane," the man said. "We're just trying to help you. I have to put in an IV – you've lost a lot of blood."

IV? What was he talking about? And what did he mean about blood? He wanted to sleep – so why wasn't anyone letting him back on his couch.

"Ow," he said again but no one seemed to be paying any attention to him, which was strange as they were all swarming around him, and poking and prodding and sticking things into him. "Stop," he coughed out.

"We're just about ready to transport," a new voice called. "I can take one person with us."

"I'll go."

Jane sighed in relief. Lisbon! He should have known that she'd be there for him. He just hoped she'd hold his hand.

Half-way to the hospital his body had finally had enough. The pain, the guilt, the trauma all overwhelmed him. As he drifted off he could feel her hand holding his. He smiled.

 _ **Enough or epilogue?**_


	2. Holding

_**Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews! Due to popular demand I'm continuing this story. Rather than an epilogue I decided to do Lisbon's POV (one of my reviewers recommended that and I thought it sounded like a good idea). This really will be only a few chapters though.**_

 _ **For those of you who asked about Just You and Me Kid - I**_ **am _going to get back to it immediately. It's been a rough summer and I just couldn't get the brain cells working well enough to continue. But you should see a posting in a few days._**

 _ **Thank you all again and here's the next chapter ...**_

She was so angry that she promised herself she was going to shoot Jane when she found him. She'd _told_ him not to go after Ziegler, but like always he went ahead and did what he wanted without considering the consequences.

So now he was missing and it was her job to find him. A small thought burrowed into her mind that he could be hurt, could be _dead_ , but she made herself stop going down that mental pathway almost immediately. He was fine. She'd find him holed up somewhere, safe, and having escaped by the skin of his teeth. That was Jane.

"Where do you want us to look Boss?" Rigsby asked. He too looked worried, as did Grace. Cho didn't look any different than he normally did, although Teresa knew that didn't mean much. He was probably just as worried about their irritating consultant as the rest of them.

"You and Cho go check out Ziegler's office and then his house. Grace, you stay here and search out any other places or people connected to him."

"What about you?" Cho asked.

"I'm going to go back to the stables. Jane found something there, I'm sure of it, so I'm going to go ask some of the stable hands if they've seen him. If I'm lucky he'll be there talking to the horses."

Rigsby chuckled and Cho nodded. The next moment they were all off doing what they could to find Jane.

The stables were a dead-end. No one there had seen the sometimes more-trouble-than-he was-worth consultant – at least they claimed they hadn't. It was times like these that Lisbon wished she had Jane's lie-detecting skills.

She made her way back to her car as she pulled her phone from her pocket to call Cho. That was the last thing she remembered.

Her head was killing her. It had been years since she'd indulged in any heavy drinking and she didn't get migraines so she was confused as to why she felt the way she did. The only headache she'd had in years walked on two legs, had curly blond hair and blue eyes.

"Lisbon?"

Someone was calling her name. Why? What was going on? She tried to move but the pain in her head increased. She wanted to groan, but wasn't sure where she was so forced herself to remain quiet.

" _Lisbon_ ," someone called again, although it was less of a shout and more of a croak.

" _Teresa!_ Wake up, please."

It must be her father telling her to wake up. He's the only one that ever said 'Teresa' in that tone. She turned her head and opened her eyes.

It took all of five seconds for everything to come rushing back. _Jane_! Of course – who else would it be? She could feel the anger stirring.

"Jane!" She struggled to sit up, feeling much too vulnerable lying down. She frowned –why _was_ she lying down.

"What the hell happened?" she snapped at him.

Instead of answering he simply grunted something, at which point her anger boiled over and she began to berate him for _again_ going off and doing something without telling her, _again_ getting them into a pickle. And then he wouldn't even explain.

"I'm sorry," was all he said and so softly she could barely hear him.

What? This wasn't like the man. What was going on? She tried to see him in the dimly lit room but all she could tell was that he seemed okay. He was sitting leaning up against the wall, his head back. He appeared very tired was all. Serves him right, she thought. But she did speak to him more gently. "What happened?"

As he started to answer she began to calm down. He obviously hadn't meant to get into trouble and he _had_ been about to call her – at least that's what he said and as hard a time as she was going to give him, she did believe he was telling the truth.

But then her attention was caught.

" – I heard a sound."

"What kind of a sound?"

As soon as he said the word "gunshot" her stomach clenched and her heart started beating. It was when he mumbled something and he began to list to the side that she realized.

Oh God! She moved quickly over to him and opened his jacket. It was then that she saw it.

She was used to blood and had seen her share of gory murder scenes. But right here, right now she felt like she wanted to throw up – because the blood was covering someone she cared about.

Jane's shirt was soaked in his blood – as were his pants. There was too much blood, way too much!

"Jane, why didn't you _tell_ me?" she asked, frantic at what she was seeing.

She barely paid attention to him – although she was momentarily confused by his apology. She had to stop the bleeding and get him to a hospital. God – there was so _much_!

She managed to ease him down – although it clearly hurt like hell. She wanted to cry herself when she heard the whimpers coming from his mouth. But she couldn't let that stop her. She had to bandage up his wound and then figure out how the hell to get help.

Teresa pulled open Jane's shirt – in the back of her mind realizing this was only the second time that she'd seen him like this. The first had been when he'd almost died from drowning.

The wound – a small bullet hole in his right abdomen – was still bleeding, although sluggishly. Without any further thought she ripped a piece off the bottom of her shirt and pressed it onto the wound.

She glanced up, just in time to see Jane's eyes roll up and his body relax. For a moment she feared that he had died – but then she could see his chest rise slowly. He'd just passed out.

It was probably a good thing, she told herself. This was she could do what she had to do without causing him so much pain. She quickly finished as well as she could with only their clothes for bandages. She then tried to cover him back up with his sopping shirt and jacket and lifted his head into her lap.

"Oh Jane," she said softly, gently stroking his face. "Please don't die on me."

It was almost ten minutes before he opened his eyes and in that time she grew more and more frightened. What if the criminals came back? Surely they wouldn't leave them here, knowing she at least could get away. They had to get out of here and Jane had to have help, and soon.

She felt herself relax slightly when his eyes opened. "Jane? How are you feeling?"

He stared at her for a long time and she didn't know whether he was truly conscious or not. The blood loss had to be affecting his awareness.

She bit back a sob. She had to help him. She had to _do_ something. The poor man was in agony, dying and all she did was sit here and stroke his head.

But was it really different than what she'd been doing for years? Patrick Jane was a man who suffered – every second of every day. He'd lost all that was precious to him, and on top of that he lived with the guilt of believing it was his fault.

And yet he managed to get up each day, to smile and joke and work to bring criminals and murderers to justice. He made them the most successful team in the state – _and_ he cared for them. Oh, he'd deny it, he'd joke about it, but it was obvious he did.

And what did she do? She yelled at him, she gave him a hard time, she ripped him a new one on many occasions – but what she didn't do, or at least hardly ever did, was show him sympathy or compassion. She did nothing to try and help ease his pain.

What was wrong with her that she couldn't cut him some slack? He'd found his wife and little girl _slaughtered_ and all she'd done, that first time, was tell him to clean himself up. She was a horrible woman.

Her eyes lowered to his face – his face that was beginning to go slack. His breathing was slowing down and – oh God no! He was dying. He _couldn't_ die. She couldn't lose him.

"Jane," she said sharply. "Don't you _dare_ die on me." Okay – so she needed to be more sympathetic, but that was for the future. For right now he didn't need sympathy. He needed to keep going. He needed to live.

She hated what she had to do now - but they had to get out of here. They had to get help. So, she made herself do what was necessary to save him.

She tried to wake him up – to get him to open his eyes, but he continued to drift and his breath got shallower and slower. Damn it – he was dying. Please God, don't let Patrick die. I need him. She sobbed, the pain of it almost too much to bear.

"Patrick?" she finally whispered, almost ready to give up hope.

And that did it. He opened his eyes and looked up at her.

"You – only call me – Patrick cause I'm – dyin'."

"No, I called you Patrick so you would listen to me," she said fiercely, trying hard not to cry.

"Oh. Like it – when you – call me – Patrick. No one – does, anymore."

No one called him by his name anymore. The tears began to escape at his words. How sad – how horribly, terribly lonely and sad that no one used his name. And yet he'd asked her to on more than one occasion.

But she hadn't because – why? She knew why, although she didn't really want to admit it to herself. It was because it was too close, too personal. It would make her vulnerable and that's not something she could ever be with Patrick Jane.

Because he was a man who'd buried his heart with his wife and daughter. He had chosen to never love again – to protect what was left of his broken heart and to live only for justice, never for love.

But she knew that it would be so easy to lose her own heart to this man. She knew herself – knew that she was a nurturer, a healer – a woman who needed to be needed. She was also a woman who needed tenderness and understanding – both of which Jane had, even if he tried to hide at least the tenderness.

No! She had to guard her heart. She had to remain the tough, sarcastic, _hard_ woman that Jane knew. Because if she didn't she'd lose him completely. He would not stay around to face her unrequited love.

And now – now she once more needed to be tough, this time for his sake, not her own.

"Now come _on_ ," she told him after complaining of potential paperwork. "Move your butt and let's get out of here."

The next few moments were utter hell as she forced Jane to his feet. He was practically sobbing by the time he managed it – she'd never heard him in so much pain. She once more felt like she was going to be sick – sick from guilt and anguish.

But at least he was on his feet and moving. They had to get out of here and they were going to do it!

She kept forcing him on – saying things that later she'd think of as unforgivable. She even went so far as to call him a _baby_ – a baby for hurting and wanting to rest. God, she was terrible.

But it was when he murmured his daughter's name, clearly beginning to hallucinate, that she truly lost it. The tears poured down her face and she wanted to take him into her arms and take away all his pain.

A moment later he snapped back into awareness of the present and she breathed a sigh of relief. It was just the pain of walking, that was all. When he actually joked about Rigsby her relief grew. They were going to make it. _Patrick_ was going to make it.

The door was their first obstacle, but after a few minutes of fumbling and swaying Jane finally managed to open it.

He couldn't be _that_ bad if he was still able to pick a lock – right? She had to keep telling herself he was going to be okay because the alternative was – something she refused to even acknowledge.

They were moving again – so slowly, _too_ slowly – but at least they were getting away from the shack. She glanced back once, briefly, but had no idea where they were. The building looked as if it could have been used as a fishing shed in days gone by. Now it was probably completely abandoned.

They kept walking – or stumbling if she were being honest. She kept looking at Jane, who was ghost-white, his eyes unfocused and his breathing shallow and harsh. She frowned, again terrified that he wasn't going to make it. It was at that instant that he looked at her.

"You – mad?" he asked, sounding worried.

Mad? God – what had she become that he would think she was mad at him for being hurt. How did he even stand being around her?

"I'm not mad," she'd told him gently. "I just want to get out of here and get you to a hospital."

And there was the typical Jane answer. She almost laughed when he started to complain about hospitals. Again she felt her hope grow. He wouldn't be complaining if he were really dying – would he?

And then there was the fact that he told her about the pine tar. Even though she could see his mind begin to wander, he was still sharp enough to remember the clue that had given him the killer.

And wish to God it hadn't, she muttered to herself.

It was at that precise second that Jane tumbled to the ground, his legs giving out. She frantically dropped to her knees beside him and tried to get him to stand back up. No! He had to be okay. He was just complaining a second ago.

"An'jla," he heard him murmur.

Her heart broke once more for him as he called out his wife's name. He began to speak and it was clear he thought he was talking to Angela. He really was dying, Teresa suddenly realized.

She tried to wake him up – tried to get him to respond, but all he would do was talk to his wife. It was then that she knew what she had to do, but she wasn't sure she could ever forgive herself. If Jane survived he might not forgive her either.

But when he asked about Charlotte – worried about his daughter – she knew she had no choice. For now she had to become Angela Jane.

"She's safe Patrick," she said gently, truly believing that. Even if Jane didn't believe, she did. She knew that little Charlotte and her mother were safe and happy in God's hands. "She's happy. But you need to stand up – you need to go with Teresa."

She saw Jane frown. "Teresa?" he asked, confused by his wife's words.

"Yes, that's right," Lisbon answered, closing her eyes as the lies left her lips. "Please Ja – Patrick, _please_."

"Angela?" he asked a few heartbeats later.

She leaned down and stroked his cheek. "She's safe with Charlotte," she said, becoming herself once more. "But she wants you to get up."

That seemed to do it. She watched as Jane nodded and his eyes opened. He struggled, so weak and almost at the end of his rope, but eventually he made it to his feet.

They moved forward, step by step, breath by breath. Lisbon kept her eyes on the man she was practically carrying and knew they couldn't go much farther. She could see his life slowly seeping away.

She cried silently but kept on. She was _not_ going to give up – not until there was no more hope. She would carry him if she had to. She would support him. She would be his wife if that's what he needed to survive. But she would always be there for this man.

A noise up ahead startled her and she looked up. It was only then that she realized she was at the bottom of a hill. There were trees dotted all over it, but there was also a clear path – and on that path was a running Rigsby.

She almost laughed at that – Running Rigsby – but she knew it was more relief and fear than humor. They were saved.

"Oh thank God!"

Soon things began to move at lightning speed and before she even had time to think they were being whisked to the hospital – lights and sirens blaring for everyone to see and hear.

When they arrived Jane was taken from her, even though she demanded to stay with him. She was ignored and a well-meaning nurse helped her into a cubicle, all the while she was calling to be with Jane.

She didn't remember anything after that. She figured she must have passed out on the bed and when she awoke she was in a hospital gown – her blood-stained and torn clothes nowhere to be found.

And Grace was sitting there, looking at her worriedly.

"Grace," she whispered. The next moment she'd been handed a glass of water with a straw and she took a long, cool draught of water. "Jane? How is he?"

"He's in surgery," Grace told her gently. "I haven't heard anything more than that."

"I have to go to him," Lisbon said, trying to sit up but falling back dizzily.

"You have a concussion Boss," Grace told her. "The doctor says you're supposed to rest."

"I can rest after I know what's happened to Jane." When Grace did nothing more than look sympathetic Lisbon shook her head in frustration. "Grace, you don't understand. He _died_ on the way to the hospital. They had to inject his heart with medicine to get it started again.

Grace winced and nodded. "He lost a lot of blood Teresa. I don't think – I mean, the nurse said -"

"What? What did she say? _Tell_ me."

"She said it didn't look good. You have to prepare yourself."

But of course one _couldn't_ prepare oneself for that. How could you? What were you supposed to do, start thinking of all the steps you had to take when someone you lo – _cared_ about died? Were you to start planning their funeral? She winced and stopped herself.

"He's not going to die," she said firmly. This time she went more slowly and carefully, but eventually she sat up, her feet hanging down the side of the bed. "We need to find out what's going on."

"You stay here," Grace sighed. "I'll be right back. Just _rest_ Teresa."

She nodded – there was really nothing else she could do. But if the idiot _died_ – she'd – she'd _kill_ him.

She sobbed and jammed her fist into her mouth to stop any more pathetic sounds from escaping. He had to be okay. She couldn't survive without him.

It felt like forever, but it was probably only about 10 minutes before Grace came back. She looked at her fearfully.

"Well?"

"He's just out of surgery," Grace said quietly. "He survived but he's still in serious shape. The nurse said if he can make it through the next 24 hours he should be okay."

"Where is he?" Lisbon asked, determinedly, pushing herself out of the bed.

It spoke to how well Grace knew her that she didn't object. Instead she simply shook her head. He's in recovery but they'll be taking him to the Intensive Care Unit in about an hour – once he's stable. You can only be with him if you're family," Grace cautioned.

"Find me some pants," Teresa told her. "We're Jane's family and we're going to be there for him. I don't care if I have to chain myself to his bed!"

Grace's eyes glinted with a small spark of humor. Teresa would have been horrified to know that at that moment, Grace was thinking how much like Patrick she'd become.

"Okay – just wait here and I'll find something. Don't go anywhere!" she commanded sternly.

Teresa nodded, but swore that if her friend and subordinate wasn't back soon she'd prance out with the bare-assed hospital gown and demand to be taken to the ICU. As it was, Grace returned in less than five minutes carrying a set of scrubs.

"Here you go. You need help?"

"No. Where are Cho and Rigsby?"

"They're processing Ziegler and his bodyguard. They'll be by as soon as they're done."

Teresa nodded while she dressed. She'd barely pulled on her top when the curtain moved and a nurse stepped in.

"How are you feeling Miss Lisbon?"

"Mrs. Jane," Teresa said, a glance out of the corner of her eye at Grace. The young woman started, and her eyebrow went up, but she didn't say anything.

"Oh dear – I'm sorry, we didn't realize." She looked curiously at the red-headed young woman, who hadn't indicated this woman was married to the man they'd brought in at the same time.

"I use my maiden name at work. When can I see my husband?"

"Uh – I told this young lady that he'll be in the ICU in about," she looked at her watch, "30 minutes. Why don't you sit here and as soon as he's settled we'll come and get you."

So now, just over a half an hour later, here she was, sitting in the ICU, keeping watch over Patrick Jane. She looked at him and felt fear. He was pale – so pale his skin was translucent, with dark shadows smudged like charcoal under his eyes. He was also totally still, except for the slow lifting and dropping of his chest.

What was the hardest to look at were all the tubes and wires that pierced his poor, injured body. He had a breathing tube and IV's – things allowing life-saving substances to enter his body, and other tubes taking away the waste and poisons. It seemed such a violation and she knew that Jane would hate this to the bottom of his soul.

But all of these things were keeping him alive so for that reason she was thankful. She slowly reached out and took his limp, dry, hot hand in hers and held it tightly. She would sit here with him and hold on to him and make sure that he stayed alive. She was not going to let this man die.

She leaned forward until her mouth was close to his ear. "I'm here my love – and I'm not going to let you go."


	3. Awake

He was warm and cozy and floaty. He had no idea where he was or what was going on but he did know that Angela and Charlotte were safe and happy. For some reason that made _him_ happy – something he thought he hadn't felt for a long time.

He allowed himself to drift, to enjoy the feeling of not being tethered by hurt or anger or guilt. Why those emotions seemed more familiar to him than the present feeling of – comfort – he didn't want to examine. He just wanted to be.

Angela. God he loved her. How had he lucked out to find a woman so caring, so loving, so understanding? And she knew him – knew his faults and his weaknesses and still cared for him, still protected him, still ran interference for him.

He saw her green eyes in his mind – wait – no. He frowned mentally. Angela had _blue_ eyes, not green.

For the first time since he'd become aware he felt a touch of fear. No, no – it was _Angela_ he loved. She was safe – wasn't she?

He heard a noise and suddenly began to feel something. The floaty warm feeling began to seep out the ends of his fingers and toes and was replaced with the first awareness of pain.

He didn't want to go wherever _something_ was taking him. "No," he murmured. He wanted to be back with Angela and Charlotte. He wanted to be happy. He didn't want to be alone.

"Jane?"

The voice brought him closer to the pain and he tried to resist. He wanted to tell the voice to go away, to stop, to leave him alone. He grew afraid.

"Jane, come on. Open your eyes."

No. He wasn't going to open them, because then he might see green, not blue.

But was that so bad, a small voice whispered to him? She looked out for him, protected him. She pretended to be tough, to not care – but he knew that wasn't true. He knew that her heart was big and that she did care.

Suddenly the fear began to recede while at the same time he felt a sharp pang of loss. He refused to think about why, although deep inside he knew.

"An'jla," he sighed. "Charly." It was a cry of anguish, even if uttered so quietly as almost to be silent. He knew – he remembered. They were gone.

"Patrick?" this time the voice broke, but still reached out to him. It pulled him back, pulled him to the world he wasn't sure he wanted to inhabit, except that she was there, and she cared.

He slowly opened his eyes and connected with those green eyes, for some reason awash in tears. He felt the fear fade to almost nothing and the loneliness recede – but the pain, at least the physical pain, didn't.

"T'resa?"

"Jane, you're going to be okay. Just rest and sleep and you'll soon be out of here."

Confused as to why she'd woken him up to tell him to sleep he blinked up at her. But then he replayed her words in his mind. By "here" he knew she meant the hospital. It had only taken him a second to realize where he was. He couldn't quite remember _why_ but he was pretty sure that was because of the drugs coursing through his system. Sadly, they didn't seem to be doing much to deal with the pain.

"T'resa?" he asked again, although he wasn't quite sure _what_ he was asking. A moment later she took his hand. His lips quirked up in a tiny smile and he sighed. Yes, that's what he'd needed. His eyes began to close and he allowed himself to drift back to sleep, knowing he wasn't alone and that he was safe.

The next time he awoke he knew exactly where he was. There was another sharp wrench in his heart, but he quickly put that aside, to be dealt with later. Instead he immediately opened his eyes and allowed them to wander around the room.

They quickly stopped when they got to the person slumped in the chair next to him. He frowned, wondering why Lisbon was dressed like a nurse, in blue hospital scrubs. He then looked closely at her face and could feel his heart speed up. What was wrong? She looked – terrible.

She looked as if she had huge bruises under her eyes and her hair hung, lank and messy around her face. He winced slightly when he saw the position of her neck, knowing she'd wake up with one hell of a kink.

Speaking of which – he tried to stretch – and immediately groaned. That had _hurt_.

Lisbon's eyes flew open. "Jane?" she leaned forward and it was only then that Jane realized his hand was held in hers. He figured from the way she was looking at him that she didn't realize either. Interesting.

"Lisbon?" He meant to ask her what was going on, but was surprised when his voice came out sounding like a frog. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Lisbon?" A bit better but he was still shocked at how very weak he sounded. "What's - happening?"

"Wait – I should call the – oh, you're here."

Jane frowned and then realized a nurse had approached his bed. He sent her a fierce scowl, which didn't faze her in the least and she proceeded to poke and prod him.

"Well Mr. Jane, it's good to see you finally awake. How are you feeling?"

He shrugged, which he immediately realized was a stupid idea.

"Be careful," Nurse Opot told him gently. "You had major surgery and you're going to be sore. How's the pain?"

"It's doing very well, thank you," he snarked.

She regarded him seriously, although one eyebrow popped up. "Okay – I'm going to give you a bit more painkiller since you're obviously hurting. Now just take it easy. Your wife is here and she'll explain everything to you." The nurse injected something into his IV and then patted his shoulder and left.

He knew the drugs were messing with his mind, but he thought the nurse had said something about _wife_. He looked at Lisbon in confusion and was surprised to see a guilty look on her face.

"Teresa?" he murmured, already feeling the effects of the narcotic.

"Sorry. It was the only way they'd let me stay with you. I didn't mean – forgive me?"

He tried to lick his lips, his mind becoming more confused and fuzzy with each passing second. Teresa was his _wife_? No – that wasn't right. His eyes began to lose focus as he grew sleepy.

He felt the hand holding his begin to pull away. "No," he whispered, desperately trying to hold on to it. "Don't – leave me."

The hand clasped his tightly. "I won't leave Patrick – don't worry. Just rest my dear."

He nodded slowly and soon was sleeping.

The third time he woke up the pain was worse and he was in a different room. He looked around and realized he was no longer in what must have been the Intensive Care Unit. He was now in a regular room, although he was still hooked up to an IV and – he lifted the sheet – yup, to a catheter.

What the hell had happened? He glanced at the side of the bed, expecting to see Ter – _someone –_ but he was all alone. He instantly felt a sense of loss, although he knew he couldn't expect his teammates to sit by his bed.

But hadn't she been there before? He seemed to remember her with him, holding his hand, although it could have been his imagination. He was clearly sick even though he couldn't remember why.

God – what if something had happened to Teresa, or to the rest of the team. His heart began to beat faster and he desperately tried to find the call button.

The movement caused a sharp pain in his stomach and he gasped. What the _hell_ had been done to him? He pushed the button – and again, and again. He was about ready to kick off the covers and get out of bed when the door opened and in walked –

"Teresa!" he breathed, letting his head fall back.

"Jane! You're awake."

Before she had a chance to say more the door opened and a nurse bustled in. "Mr. Jane – what's going on? You only need to push the button once. Is there an emergency?"

"Uh – no, sorry," he said, although his eyes didn't leave Teresa. "Must have gotten stuck in the covers."

The woman shook her head and sighed. "Do you need anything?"

"Uh – water?"

"I'll get it," Teresa told the nurse with a smile. "Thank you."

Soon the woman was gone and Jane took a sip of the water held out by Teresa.

"Better?" she asked, her eyes perusing his face carefully.

He nodded and laid back down, a sigh of relief leaving his lips. He was so weak –and so sore. "What happened?"

"You don't remember?"

"Wouldn't ask if I did."

She shook her head, suddenly going all Lisbony on him. He couldn't help but smile, feeling as if his world was starting to right itself. He watched her closely, waiting to hear what she'd say.

"You went off, like I told you _not_ to, and you got shot."

"Really?" his eyebrows went up. "I was shot?"

"Yes – why do you think you're in the hospital?"

"I didn't know but – shot. Wow. Was it bad?" He suspected it had been, but he was in a regular room so maybe it hadn't been too serious.

"Yes, it was very bad," her voice changed and broke. "It was – really bad. Jane, we almost lost you. You almost died."

He swallowed, somehow not expecting that. "Died? Uh -" he looked down at himself but everything _appeared_ okay. What's the damage?"

"The doctor said you're going to be fine," she quickly reassured him. "The bullet clipped your liver and nicked a major vein. The reason it was so bad was that you lost a tremendous amount of blood and went into shock. It was almost too late when we found you. But now you just have to rest and allow yourself to heal."

"Oh," he swallowed again. It was frightening to think how close he'd come to death. "But I'll be okay?"

"Mmm hmm," she nodded. "It will take a while for your body to replace all the blood, so you're going to be tired and weak and thirsty for a while, but you'll be okay."

He nodded and lay back, wondering why he couldn't remember. As soon as he thought those words, however, a picture of Lisbon lying on a floor somewhere popped into his mind.

"Are _you_ okay?" he asked abruptly.

"I'm fine. I just had a minor concussion. It was you that we were worried about."

"We were – in a shack. You were hurt," he said, trying to remember. "You made me walk!" he suddenly accused her. "You made me stand up, with a hole in my gut, and _walk_!"

"I'm sorry – but if we'd stayed there you probably would have died. Cho and the others were looking in the other direction and may not have found the cabin. We were able to walk far enough that we met up with them and got you to a hospital. We almost didn't make it in time."

He still felt aggrieved, remembering the agony of moving, but most of him was realizing that Lisbon had – once again –saved his life.

"Thank you," he said finally. "And I'm sorry – I really didn't mean to get myself shot. I stayed well away from Ziegler – hey, did you catch him?"

"Yes, we did. We have him for attempted murder and kidnapping of the two of us – and we analyzed his shoes and discovered -"

"Pine tar."

"Yes Jane – pine tar."

He grinned. He couldn't help it – he loved being right. "They were idiots."

"Who, Ziegler and his men?"

"Mmm hmm. They should have dumped me in the ocean, not in a shack _and_ they should never have left you alive -"

"Why thank you!"

He rolled his eyes. "I was trying to complement you woman! As I was _saying_ – leaving you alive clearly meant you'd save the day. Good job Lisbon!"

"Thank you Jane," she said, shaking her head. "Now, how are you feeling? You're sounding better."

"Better than what?"

"Well, you were hallucinating."

"I was not!"

"Uh – yes you were. You don't exactly have a stiff upper lip."

"I had a _hole in my stomach_. _You_ try being quiet, especially when you have a sadistic woman forcing you to stand and walk and – hey," he said, sounding wounded, "you even made me pick the lock. We wouldn't even have gotten out of there if it hadn't have been for me."

"Okay fine. You had a right to groan and I'm _not_ sadistic! I did it to save your life."

"But you enjoyed it, didn't you?" As soon as he said the words he wanted to take them back. One look at Teresa's stricken face told him how awful it must have been.

"Hey," he reached out with his hand – although she shied away. "You know I'm kidding and I _do_ appreciate that you saved me."

She gave him a wobbly smile and nodded. "I know. It was just – it was horrible Jane. I didn't think you were going to make it."

"Meh – I'm tough and you're tougher. We're a good team," he grinned.

She smiled back at him and he felt slightly better, although there was still something she wasn't saying and it obviously bothered her. He was growing tired again, and he was hurting so he allowed himself to rest. But his mind didn't want to stop. There was _something_ he felt he had to remember.

Wait a second! "You said you're my wife!" he exclaimed. He wanted to laugh at the stricken and guilty expression on Lisbon's face.

"I had to. They wouldn't have let me into the ICU unless I was a relative. I hope you don't mind."

He shook his head. "Nah – but you didn't have to stay with me."

"Of course I did," Teresa told him. "I had to protect the hospital staff from your interesting brand of charm.

"I see. Well thanks for pretending to be my wife – I guess – and I _am_ charming."

After grinning at her snort of disbelief, Jane closed his eyes and tried to bring back all the pieces of that time in the shack and then their walk out of there. He could only remember bits and pieces of it, the time in the shack the most clear.

So what was it? "How did they find us?" he asked suddenly.

"Grace discovered that Ziegler's former partner had owned a parcel of land about 30 miles out of town. Cho and Rigsby decided to take a look when they realized I'd disappeared and they suspected I'd been taken. The only problem was there was a cabin – a new cabin – to the east about five miles. They were headed in that direction when they found us. Our shack was a couple of miles west of where we met up."

Jane nodded, knowing how lucky he was that they kidnapped Teresa, although he felt badly she'd been hurt. But there was still something missing, even though he didn't have a clue – wait! He squinted in thought and it suddenly came to him. _Angela_ had been the one to get him going – to make him move from that shack, when all he'd wanted to do was lie down and sleep. And that sleep would have meant his death.

"Angela," he murmured. He almost missed that Lisbon froze for a brief second when he said his wife's name. His eyes narrowed – what did that mean?

Had he hallucinated his wife's voice? It was completely likely that he had. He often dreamed of her and he _had_ hallucinated his daughter after drinking the belladonna tea. But somehow the memory seemed real and yet he knew that Angela was gone. What had happened then?

Teresa hadn't said anything and wasn't looking at him – it was at that moment that he knew. She'd pretended to be his wife in order to get him to move, knowing that she was probably the only voice he would respond to. He had been willing to let go – to die – and Lisbon had used the one thing she could to keep him alive.

For a brief moment he didn't know whether to be hurt, angry or touched by what she had done. He stared at Lisbon, who still wouldn't look at him, and allowed himself to smile.

He felt a sense of peace and warmth fill him – and closed his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered. This time he reached out and _took_ her hand and squeezed it. "I owe you my life."

With that he allowed himself to sleep, no longer alone, no longer cold – but warmed by the compassion of the woman with the green eyes.


	4. Beyond the Scars

"I will be fine Lisbon," Jane said as he slowly stood. "You don't need to worry about me."

"But I do worry about you Jane," she answered. "You almost died and you're still weak."

"I can order what I need," he argued. "All I'm going to do is rest so there's no point in you babysitting me."

She frowned at him as he carefully gathered his few possession. "I don't like it. You shouldn't be on your own."

"I appreciate the sentiment Teresa, but I'm really looking forward to the peace and quiet. They never let you alone in the hospital. All I'm going to do is sleep and maybe watch TV."

Teresa sighed. "Fine, but I'm going to check up on you regularly."

He rolled his eyes, but nodded. He knew Teresa well enough to know she wouldn't take no for an answer.

She drove him off to his extended stay motel, griping at him the whole way. He had to admit, as they arrived at the dingy building, that he almost changed his mind and agreed to stay with her. Fortunately, the more sensible part of him knew it wouldn't be wise. Lisbon was one of the few people – maybe the only person – whom he had allowed in past the carefully constructed mask he'd created for himself since his wife and daughter's deaths. She was the only one who knew the real him.

Maybe it hadn't been wise to allow himself to open up to her, but eventually he'd craved some human connection. His guilt and grief had allowed him to stay isolated, emotionally, if not physically for a long time but those barriers had started to weaken. And if he were honest with himself, her friendship and loyalty were what had kept him sane during many of the bad times.

He was grateful that he had her in his life but the problem was, he knew that if he allowed himself to he could very easily move into something much different than friendship with her. He also knew he couldn't go there. He had a job to do and nothing could get in the way of that – he'd promised himself that when he'd started his quest for vengeance.

And then there was Angela. There was always Angela. He hadn't consciously made the decision to never love again after she'd been killed, because that part of his life had ended then. He no longer thought in terms of love or romance – or even sex. He was entirely consumed with pain and with revenge. Other emotions had no part in his life.

But now – things were different and he didn't quite know what to do or how to behave. Being injured – and almost dying – had somehow brought to the fore a whole host of feelings he'd thought dead and buried.

He sighed as he opened the door and made his way – slowly – into his dark and unappealing room.

"Jane, you can't stay here. This is horrible."

Teresa had followed him from the car and had insisted on carrying his things. He glanced around the room and had to agree with her. It was not the most hospitable place in the world. In fact, his attic room at the CBI was better.

"It's okay. I don't even notice it and all I'm going to be doing is resting anyway."

"But -"

"Teresa!" he turned towards her slowly. "I appreciate your concern, really I do, but I'll be just fine. In fact I'm going to lie down and sleep right now." As he spoke he slowly began to take off his jacket. It was still painful to twist and move and so he was careful.

"Alright," she answered, her lips pursed and that cute little frown between her eyes. "I'll be back."

He was too tired to joke or tease her so instead just nodded. She waited until he was lying down and then she gave him another round of instructions before heading out the door. As it clicked shut behind her he sighed and closed his eyes.

What the hell was he going to do?

It was two weeks before he was able to return to the CBI and even then he had to take it easy. He was frustrated at how weak and tired he still was. The doctor told him it would take a few months before he was back to full speed but as someone who'd never really been sick before, he found it hard to tolerate.

Of course those two weeks had allowed him to get his thoughts together and his emotions under control. He convinced himself that almost dying, and then being saved – once more – by Lisbon had simply heightened his emotions and made him feel things that weren't really there. He _cared_ for Lisbon and was grateful to her and that had somehow felt like something else. She was a close friend, not a lover and never a replacement for Angela.

Soon things returned to their old pattern of him searching for Red John and, in between, solving murders. His relationship with Lisbon went back to their old one – him being irritating and her getting irritated– and always having his back.

It was a relationship he could live with.

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He pulled off his shirt and for once allowed himself to study the scar on his right ribcage. It was long and quite noticeable – even though the bullet hole itself had been small they'd had to open him up to repair the damage. It didn't really matter how it looked since no one ever saw it except him – and usually he ignored it. He didn't ever take his shirt off in public – he'd given up swimming after he'd lost Charlotte. It had been a favorite activity of the two of them and he could never bear to do it again.

But now he studied the scar and allowed himself to think back to all that had happened since that day.

Red John was dead and he'd had to flee the country in order to avoid a murder charge. So here he was now – living in a tropical paradise – with absolutely nothing to show for his life.

But you _have_ your life, that irritating voice in his head said. He'd survived – something he hadn't really believed would happen. He'd long expected to be killed in the search for the serial killer. His only hope had been to take him out first.

For a brief moment, after he'd strangled McAllister, he'd thought about taking his own life, not sure if there was anything left for him once his hunt was finished. But then he'd imagined Lisbon's face when she heard the news and he knew he couldn't do that to her. And surprisingly he'd felt a sudden desire to live, to go on.

But was this living? He lowered his shirt and looked around the small, humble room. In many ways it was better, homier, than where he'd lived for years. But it really wasn't home – because he'd learned, at a very early age that home wasn't about a place, but about people.

As a child he'd lived in a tiny trailer and when his mother had been alive it had been a warm, safe home. It was only after she was gone that he'd lost that. When he'd married Angela, and then when they'd had Charlotte, that sense of home had returned. Again he'd lost it – and so here he was, living in a house but with no home.

Again Teresa's face popped into his mind and he smiled. Yes, he could admit it now. Home _still_ wasn't about a place, but about people – about a _person_ and that was Teresa Lisbon. When he thought of home, when he missed it and grew homesick, it was _her_ he missed, not his attic room, not his motel, not the CBI, not even California. No, to him Teresa Lisbon _was_ home.

And he couldn't do anything about it since he was stuck here on this tropical island. He sighed and started making himself a cup of tea, his cure for almost everything. He acknowledged that the island had been good for him for the first year. He'd needed time to heal, to let go of his past. And he'd done that. He'd worked very hard to stay healthy and positive. He'd forced himself to think about Angela and Charlotte – but the good things, the happy memories. He'd also buried away thoughts of Red John – McAllister – refusing to let the man ruin the rest of his life.

He'd also allowed himself to think about Teresa, about what she meant to him. He thought of his love for Angela and then thought about his love for Lisbon. They were in many ways very different women – but both were strong, loving, and tough when it was needed –and both had accepted him for who he was. And he loved them both.

He smiled slightly as he sat and took a sip of tea. He knew that Angela wouldn't begrudge him a new life, a new love. In fact she'd tell him he was a fool for waiting as long as he had to acknowledge it.

"I'm sorry Angela," he said softly. "you know me – I'm a stubborn ass!" He chuckled softly and then thought about what Lisbon would say to him. She'd give him hell!

It was strange, he acknowledged to himself, that he had found two such amazing women and that he'd had the chance to love them both. He hadn't deserved Angela, but she'd loved him anyway. He _didn't_ deserve Teresa but that didn't matter since he'd never get the chance to tell her how he felt anyway. And she would never have to let him down and tell him she didn't love him.

No, he'd allow his love for her to remain private. It would live as a warm and comforting room in his memory palace and would have to do him for the rest of his life - because he _was_ a man who loved totally and faithfully. He'd been given two chances in life to love and that was enough for any man.

He stood up and thought briefly again of Angela. He'd never forget her – she remained in his thoughts and memories – and in his heart. But he no longer dreamt of her, no longer felt as if he wanted to die to because she was gone. Instead his thoughts of her were about their life together – a time he would always cherish. She was his past, not his future.

No – now when he dreamt of happiness it was of a woman with dark hair and green eyes, a woman who had stood by his side for many years.

He smiled slightly and walked to the door. He'd go for a walk by the beach and allow himself to dream of her.

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He traced the scar with his finger. It had faded slightly over the years, but it would always remain as a reminder that he wasn't infallible, and that life could be cut short quickly and without warning.

It would also serve as the reminder of how his life had changed, over time. This scar represented the moment when he had begun to move forward, to leave his past behind and feel as if he _could_ live again, could be happy again. He'd thought, at the time, that he was being unfaithful to his wife by having thoughts of another woman and so had put that realization, that moment aside. But he knew now that he hadn't been able to do it completely and he also knew – now - that he hadn't been unfaithful to Angela or her memory. He had simply started to heal, and had begun to let his heart open, once more, to love.

His face broke into a crooked grin as he acknowledged that it had taken getting shot and almost dying to open his eyes. He definitely was stubborn.

"Stop admiring yourself Patrick!" Teresa said from behind him. "You did _not_ get that in a blaze of glory. It was as a result of you not listening to me, so you don't get to feel proud of it."

"Hey, since when have I said I'm proud of it?" he asked, dropping his shirt.

"Well – never I guess – but that's what you're thinking."

He grinned and turned around. "A mind reader now, are you? And anyway, I _was_ shot in the line of duty – _my_ duty as a consultant to help you solve crimes. You're not going to be so mean spirited as to deny me a small bit of pride in having a scar for that, are you?"

She rolled her eyes and then shook her head. "Fine, enjoy your scar. But I still say it's not something to be proud of!"

He suddenly grew serious and stepped forward. "Teresa, do you want to know what I _really_ see when I see that scar?"

She looked at him with a puzzled frown, sensing that he wasn't being glib or sarcastic. "I – was just teasing you, you know," she told him, worried that he'd been insulted.

"I know," he smiled but the smile faded quickly and he looked at her intently. "But I want to tell you about it. Getting this scar – getting shot – made me realize something."

"That standing in front of bullets isn't a good idea?" she scolded him.

"Teresa!"

"I'm sorry," she grimaced in apology. "Go on. What did it make you realize?"

He took her hands and drew her over to the couch where he gently pulled her down so that they were sitting.

"It made me realize that – I could live."

She frowned and made a quick motion with her head. "What? You mean that you could survive the bullet wound?"

"No – although because of you I did. No, I mean that for the first time – as you were forcing me to walk out of there - I saw something else in my life – something other than my loss and quest for revenge."

Lisbon's eyes tracked over his face as if she were trying to read him. "What? I don't understand."

"Until that moment I believed that I'd buried my heart with Angela and Charlotte. I believed I had nothing to live for other than revenge. Everything else was just – peripheral. I couldn't allow myself to _feel_ anything – because feelings were too painful and it would be a betrayal of my family."

She nodded slightly although it was clear she was still trying to understand.

"When I was shot I started – dreaming, maybe hallucinating, I don't know. But what I do know is that you figured prominently in them. I saw Angela but she was - all mixed up in my mind with you."

"You talked to your wife – when you were hurt."

He nodded. "Yes, and you pretended to be her to get me moving."

"I'm sorry Jane, I -"

"I'm not blaming you Lisbon. You did that to save me, and I'm grateful. What I'm trying to tell you, and not very successfully, is that _that_ is the moment I started to realize my heart _wasn't_ buried, that I could feel again – that I could begin to love again. When I was dying – yes, I thought of Angela, but I also thought of you."

"Jane -?" she stopped and bit her lip. "I don't – but you didn't say anything – or do anything."

"No, because I denied it later. I felt guilty for feeling something for someone other than my wife so I made myself shut the door on those feelings and continue my hunt for – my hunt. But you must have noticed – something?"

"I guess," she shrugged. "But after a while I convinced myself I had imagined it."

"I'm sorry." This time it was he who apologized. "I do want you to know it was very, very difficult not to simply say to hell with everything and to – try and love you."

"Try?"

"Yes. Teresa – you have to know – no, you _do_ know – I hadn't healed enough yet to really be able to love someone, to love _you_ the way you deserved. And anyway, I didn't know how you felt."

She squeezed his hands, which were still holding hers, offering silent sympathy for all he'd been through. But instead of saying anything to that she picked up on his last sentence. "And here I thought you could read me like an open book."

"Sometimes – most of the time – I can. But this was too important and anyway I -"

"Felt guilty for feeling something so you decided to shut everything down."

"Yes, pretty much."

She shook her head and leaned forward until her head was resting on his shoulder.

"Well, I'm glad you were finally able to admit how you felt."

"Me too."

"Good – so you won't try and avoid telling me how you feel from now on?"

"Teresa, I told you how I feel _in front of a whole plane-load of people_! It was _you_ who had trouble admitting it."

"I wanted to keep you on your toes," she told him.

He smiled. "You did – you do – and it's one of the reasons I love you."

"It is?" she asked, sounding pleased. "Good." But then she grew serious. "You know that I only waited to tell you because I was afraid, don't you, not because I didn't love you?"

"Yes and I'm sorry. I know that was my fault. But there's something you need to know about me."

"What?"

"I'm not the best person in the world – in fact you could have done way better than me. Yes – you could have," he nodded when she tried to "shush" him. "But one thing you would not have found was a man who will love you and be as faithful as me. I have been lucky enough to have the love of two beautiful women in my life and I cherish that fact – I cherish _you_ and I will never leave you."

"I know Jane," she answered softly. "I admit that at first I was worried but now – now I know you won't ever leave me – and I have two beautiful rings to prove it!"

He smiled and pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly. "Why am I so lucky to have you love me?"

"Because you're a wonderful man." She looked at him seriously. "And you need to know that I'll never leave you either. I love you and I'm afraid you're stuck with me."

"Not a bad thought," he chuckled. "I mean, you _are_ rather sexy."

"Rather?" she laughed. "Even with this?" she pointed to her huge, pregnant belly.

" _Especially_ with that."

"I love you, Patrick Jane," she sighed into his chest. "And thank you for loving me – for _admitting_ you loved me."

"You're welcome," he gave her a gentle kiss. "And thank you – for _finally_ telling me you loved me."

She swatted him gently. "You're welcome."

For the next few moments they held one another – and kissed and cuddled, enjoying the silence of the room as they spoke to each other without words. Eventually, however, the silence was broken by Teresa.

"But if you _ever_ get shot again, because you didn't listen to me I'll -"

"You'll what?" he asked when she stopped.

She sighed. "I'll rescue you like always I guess."

He grinned and stood up and pulled her to her feet and towards the bedroom.

"That's my Lisbon!" he said softly. "I can always count on you."


	5. Epilogue: Forward

_**Okay - I thought I was finished, but decided to do a short epilogue because Jane deserves as much happiness as I can give him.**_

He felt a finger tickle his side and realized someone was touching his scar. He opened one eye and caught the culprit red-handed.

"Hey, whatcha doing?"

"Was zat Daddy?"

He smiled and placed his hands in the warm sand and pushed himself up. He lifted his frowning son onto his lap, wanting to laugh at the intense expression on the little boy's face – an expression that made him look just like his mother. Instead of laughing, however, he simply kissed the sun and sand touched little cheek.

"It's a scar," he said simply.

"A car?" his little munchkin said, struggling over the word. "An owie?"

"Yup – an owie."

"Poow Daddy. What you do?"

"Hmm – well, you see, I disobeyed Mommy and went somewhere I wasn't supposed to go and got hurt."

"Oh no!" Samuel cried. "D'as not good Daddy," he shook his head at his father. "Mommy gibbed you a time out?"

At that Jane did laugh, and kissed his son again. "Yup – I definitely got a time out. So you see, it's not good to disobey Mommy - or Daddy." He flipped his son onto his back and began to tickle him gently.

Samuel laughed and squirmed. "-top Daddy, top!"

Just then Jane heard another squeal and looked up in time to see his little girl barreling towards him on wobbly, toddler legs.

"Da!" she cried, throwing herself at him. He caught her before she planted herself face-first into the sand.

"Hey you!" he cried, holding her tightly. "What are you doing here?"

"Ma!" she cried with a smile. Jane laughed at the expression of delight on her face, her four little teeth glinting in the afternoon sunlight.

"Bethany wanted to get in on the fun with her father and brother," Teresa sat, plunking herself down on the towel beside her family. "She was tired of building a sand castle."

Jane looked over at the mound of sand to his right – the mound that bore no actual resemblance to anything approaching a castle – and grinned. "I can see why. A lot of work building a castle."

"And knocking it down, and burying her hands in it and generally covering herself and me with sand," his wife complained, but with a twinkle in her eye. "What were the two of you doing?"

"Daddy gotsa car," Samuel announced.

"A car?"

"He means a scar," Jane told her, gesturing down to his bullet wound. "I told him I got it by disobeying you."

"That's right," Teresa nodded. "Daddy was naughty."

That made Samuel giggle and bounce, loving the idea of his Daddy being naughty. "He gotsa time out!" he announced.

Teresa laughed and looked at Jane. "He told you that, did he? Well it's true – he got a long time out. But you know what Samuel? He also learned his lesson and now he listens to Mommy."

"He does?" Jane asked softly, his brows raised.

"He'd better!" his wife answered, equally as softly.

Bethany giggled merrily and wriggled out of her father's arms. She then began to fling sand around, which made her mother quickly grab her and lift her up.

"No you don't missy," Teresa announced. "No throwing sand."

"Bet' is naughty!" announced a virtuous sounding Samuel. "She gotsa time out too?"

"You do like it when others get time outs, don't you my son," his father said. "But I think it's time we _all_ had a time out – at the hotel. I think it's nap time."

"No," Samuel frowned ferociously and stood up. "No nap! Ay's not tiwed."

Jane stood up slowly, brushing sand off his legs and swimsuit. "We'll come back to the beach but right now Bethany is tired. She's little and needs a nap."

Samuel nodded vigorously. "Bet's 'ittle, ays big!"

Jane grinned. "Okay big boy, you can help by picking up your beach toys." He began to gather some of their things as well. "Can you take Bethany?" he said to his wife.

Once everything had been sorted out, the family made it's way slowly up the beach towards their hotel. They were in California for ten days, visiting the beach and then various friends.

It didn't take long before Samuel began dragging his feet, so Jane shifted the beach bag and picked the little boy up. By the time they all reached their hotel, both children were sound asleep.

"I wish it was this easy to get them to sleep at home," Teresa said softly.

"Sun, sea and sand," Patrick said softly. "Tires out little bodies."

"And big ones," Teresa answered. "I feel like a nap too."

They put both children down for the afternoon – Bethany in a crib, Samuel in a bed with safety rails. The two adults watched them for a moment, and then with matching grins made their way into their bedroom.

"This has been fun," Teresa said. "I wish we lived closer to the ocean."

"Do you wish we were back in California?" Patrick asked as he began to strip off his bathing suit.

"Mmm – not really. Austin is home now, and I'd miss our house and pond. I do miss some of the people though. It'll be nice to see Wayne and Grace."

After both taking a quick shower the two of them decided to lie down and take a short nap. Patrick took a hold of Teresa and spooned up behind her, his arm circling her waist and his head resting on her shoulder.

"Mmm – you smell of sun," he told her. "Yummy."

She laughed and reached down and took the hand that was gently pressed against her stomach. "The children are having a great time."

"Children always love the beach," he said softly. "I used to take Charlotte all the time."

She squeezed his hand and was silent for a moment. He still didn't talk about his first family that much, but he had begun to share small memories of them with her. He spoke more about Charlotte than Angela, probably concerned that it would bother her if he spoke about his first wife. She had assured him it didn't, but he still had said very little about her. Sometimes Teresa found herself getting curious, but then decided it was best to leave things the way they were.

"I remember you told me you taught her to swim," she commented after a few seconds.

"Mmm hmm," he smiled gently, remembering. "She liked the backstroke – I was just teaching her the breaststroke when -" he stopped, refusing to go there. "That was one nice thing about Malibu – easy beach access."

"We have our pond," she lifted his hand and softly kissed it.

"We do. And ducks," he pointed out. "And Samuel loves the ducks."

"Yes – and he terrorizes them," his long-suffering mother pointed out. "And now Bethany wants to chase them too."

"You're glaring at me, aren't you," he said into her hair.

"No," she defended herself instantly.

"Yes you are," he murmured into her neck. "You blame me for duck chasing. Which is totally unfair, I must say. You're the one who gets freaked out by wild animals. _I_ know how to be quiet and calm."

"I don't get freaked out," she exclaimed. "You just have to be – careful around them."

"Yes, in case the deer or ducks attack! For a brave woman, Teresa, you're a coward in the wild."

"I'm a city girl," she told him. "Although I'm learning."

"Yes, you are." He continued to breathe in the scent of his wife as he held her close. He found himself growing drowsy and allowed himself to think back on their day at the beach – and then on his life.

He remembered back to the time he'd been shot – to all the turmoil he'd suffered over whether he could or should love again. Then he thought about how he'd returned to America after being away for two years and how he'd almost lost Teresa because of his doubt and self-hatred.

It had been close, but he'd gathered his courage together and had told her how he felt. And now – he glanced at his almost asleep wife and pulled her even closer – now he had her and two beautiful children.

There were times he still didn't feel he deserved her or the life he now led – but he'd started to come to terms with all that had happened. He had made the decision, the day he had married Teresa, that he could no longer allow himself to dwell on the past, except the good things, and had to deal with his guilt and self-hatred.

He had known that to be a good husband and a good father he had to be strong, be loving and look forward in life, not back. He would never forget all that had happened, but he would no longer let it control his life.

Now Teresa and Samuel and Bethany – _they_ were his life, not the tragedy he'd suffered.

At that moment he felt a sense of peace that he'd never felt before and a – presence that seemed to gently touch him and fill him with the wonder of the love that was now his.

Maybe there was a god, he thought in the last moments of awareness. Because he certainly felt blessed.


End file.
